1991 Sitting in the car, engine running, while Barker Ajax grabbed a couple of twenties from the automatic teller. I was thinking about Bush. George. Daydreaming in the darkness of a Saturday night near Dr. Martin Luther King Boulevard, I was startled by a light rapping on my window.
“Looking for a good time, honey?” Couldn’t have been a day over nineteen.
“Always.”
“Well?”
“Well, no thanks.”
“Suit yourself, goodlookin’.” She started to leave.
“Excuse me, ummm, Miss. Could I ask you a question?”
She turned, her face brightened. “What would that be, sugah?”
“How do you think the WAR ON DRUGS is going?”
She looked at me blankly, then she started giggling. Between giggles she managed to say: “It goin’ fine. Tee hee hee. Just fine, thank you. Tee hee.” I could hear her still laughing as she headed down the block. Tee hee hee.
The passenger door opened. “I see you made a new friend,” Barker said. “What’s the joke?”
“The war on drugs.”
“I myself am amused at the moment. Did you ever pay much attention to those instant cash machines? I just did. Not only are they more polite than a human teller, but they must think I’m stupid. Please Remove Your Cash, it says. Like I need the advice. Oh, no thanks, I’ll just leave it here for the next guy who comes along.”
I remember the first day of the year. I went to the ATM just to confirm I only had like $7.48 in the bank. And there were two sweet, no, erotically-charged crisp bills with Benjamin Franklin’s lovely visage staring at me. I’ll be honest: renewed my faith.
We headed east, past fast food franchises, insurance offices and repair shops. Past taverns and theaters and apartment buildings. Past Freddy’s.
“You’re quiet tonight.”
“Just thinking, I guess. Sorry.”
“What about?”
“The capital gains tax cut.”
No reply. “It’s abuse and that irritates me. I’m irritated.”
We kept driving. Past modest homes and school yards. Past car dealerships. Past pizza parlors and second-hand shops.
“What are you thinking about now?,” Barker asked.
“Same thing. Why?”
“You just passed where we’re going.”
I weighed the merits of a U-turn, then saw a black & white. I headed around the block.
“You should be thinking about normal stuff.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Barker said. “Like winning the lottery.”
“If I won the Megabucks jackpot – investor’s choice, of course – I still wouldn’t support a cut in the capital gains tax. Even if I was wealthy enough to benefit from it. It’s unfair to people who work for a living, it will increase the budget deficit. It’s poor public policy and short term thinking. It’s greed.
“How do you really feel about it?”
“Brought to you by the same people who refused to raise the minimum wage….Jeez, the place must be packed. I’ll park down there.”
“Did you hear what Imelda Marcos said the day after Ferdinand died?,” asked Barker. ” ‘I may fall in love again, but I will never remarry.'”
“Now, there’s an ad in the Personals you don’t want to answer. ‘Widowed white female, full-figured, former beauty queen, enjoys shopping, collecting shoes, visiting Swiss banks….’
You’re just trying to change the subject.”
“Jack D., you can’t go to a poetry reading and spend the whole night thinking about the capital gains tax. It’s, it’s not literary.”
“You’re right. Maybe I should ignore the whole thing. Maybe I should forget the Congress’ own bipartisan tax experts say 60% of the cut will benefit the richest 1% of Americans. Maybe I should forget 80% of the benefits will go to families earning more than $100,000. 80%!
“Yeah, forget all that.”
“Did I mention Ron Wyden voted for the capital gains cut?”
“No, you didn’t.” Barker held the door open for me. “Don’t forget that.”
Trickle down, my ass. “In what alternative universe do people believe enriching the already wealthy is the best way to help the poor?,” I wondered.
“Saturday night and we spent it in a room with a bunch of poets in Birkenstocks.” He muttered this as we walked back to the car.
“Some of them were wearing Nikes,” I pointed out. “Besides, what else would you be doing? It’s too early to dance with lady longhaul truckers at the Rimrock.”
“There was a movie on cable I wanted to see,” Barker pulled a clipping from his pocket.
“Listen to this. ‘DEMONWARP. One star. 1988. (Featuring) George Kennedy. A man whose daughter was kidnapped by Bigfoot rescues topless teens from alien sacrifice in the woods.'”
“Blockbuster must have a copy.”
“Just one star,” Barker seemed puzzled. “Sometimes you wonder what the critic could’ve been thinking.”
“There’s too much sludge in our lives. Too much noise. Too many sharp edges. Too many extraterrestrial virgins dying.”
My mind was still on the words I’d heard at Conant & Conant.
“To me, there’s a softness, a purity, to be felt as an artist reads his own prose, her own poetry. There’s truth. There’s beauty.”
Barker seemed to mull that over. “I know what you mean. A reading is like a concert without the music.”
“Oh, the music’s there, alright. You just have to listen for it.
If the words are right, the music’s there.”